Darkwave Synth Pop, Poetry, Dollhouses, Le Chocolat, and Black Swans
by Batty Catty Pumpkin Pie
Summary: Petunia is determined to have her perfect little girl. When her niece falls into her life, she decides to make her into the companion Lily never was. But Iolanthe is not always willing to comply and from here the complexities of a fractured home make themselves apparent. Iolanthe's childhood struggle to define herself has effects when she returns to the wizarding world. Fem Harry.
1. Chapter 1

1.

It was high stakes. Iolanthe knew that from day one.

Her Aunt Petunia led her by the hand through the door with a jangling bell and into the front waiting area for the ballet studio. Dull blue thin carpet lay beneath a set of uncomfortable wooden waiting chairs and a desk carrying a secretary who was most certainly not a ballerina. Vast and middle aged, she had a chin-length mass of curly black hair, glasses, and heavy jowls. This was not at all as elegant as Iolanthe had been led to believe a ballet studio would be.

"It is one of the most beautiful and elegant dances in the world," Aunt Petunia had promised her softly, fitting her into her pink ballet leotard and her soft ballet shoes. "And you're going to learn it." At four years old, Iolanthe Potter wanted to be beautiful and elegant. She wanted to be a princess, a ballerina princess full of grace.

"We're here for the beginner's classes," said Aunt Petunia.

"Through that door." The secretary nodded, remaining sedentary, glued to the seat. She went back to what she'd been scribbling on a piece of paper, a permanent frown etched into her features.

They walked through the door and into a vast dance studio. It had a gleaming, polished wood floor, a long floor length mirror covering one entire wall, and a bar of some sort lengthening the long wall opposite the mirror.

"Aunt Petunia," said Iolanthe, "why am I only coming here twice a week?"

"Because other kinds of dances are taught on the other days," said Aunt Petunia absently. "Now be quiet."

They walked up to a woman in a black ballet leotard. She was tall, rangy, and elegant, with a square sort of masculine face, a bun of shining brown hair, and a slight accent when she spoke. "This is my niece," said Aunt Petunia. "She's taking your class. Potter is her surname."

"Ah. Excellent." The ballet instructor looked Iolanthe over, and she fidgeted, wondering whether she passed muster. She apparently did, for the woman crossed off her name on a signup sheet. "My name is Madame du Pree," said the instructor, leaning over to look Iolanthe squarely in the eye. Iolanthe appreciated the gesture of respect, and tried not to be intimidated. "And you are… how do you pronounce your name?"

"Yo-Lahn-Thee," said Iolanthe. "Iolanthe Potter."

"It's Greek for violet flower," said Aunt Petunia apologetically. "It's an ancient name from her father's side of the family. I apologize. My sister was a romantic."

"It is not a problem," said Madame du Pree, straightening and eyeing Iolanthe in satisfaction. "In the world of dance, to have a unique, pretty name is good. A pretty name, and the most startling almond shaped bright green eyes. Two lovely traits, even if the rest of you is plain."

Aunt Petunia straightened proudly, preening herself, almost more pleased about this compliment than her niece.

"Yes, you will do," Madame du Pree told Iolanthe. "You have just the right build for it. Small, slim, and quick, even as a young child. The glasses will have to go," she told Aunt Petunia plainly.

"Understood," said Aunt Petunia immediately, seriously, her cheeks flushing a bit in embarrassment.

"Go stand with the other girls," said Madame du Pree to Iolanthe, pointing.

Aunt Petunia knelt down before her niece. "Do well," she said. "I'll be watching through the window out in the waiting room."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," said Iolanthe, and Aunt Petunia left, taking the French perfume attached to the sprigs of flower on her housedress underneath her camel coat with her. Aunt Petunia looked like a ballerina, though she was very tall. She had a gleaming chiffon of blonde hair, blue eyes, a thin yet carved face. She had bony features and moved jerkily, stiffly, robotically.

Aunt Petunia had said she and Iolanthe's mother used to take ballet lessons together as small children. Iolanthe wanted to be like her mother, the mother she didn't remember and knew nothing about.

Iolanthe scampered over to the group of other giggling, nervous girls. "Look at what's going on over there," said a girl whose tight bun of hair was almost as black as Iolanthe's was. Breathily, she whispered and giggled, pointing at something going on outside in the waiting area. Madame du Pree was arguing with two upset mothers standing beside their daughters.

"I am sorry. I need small girls," said Madame du Pree, shrugging. "It is a matter of practicality. If a girl who is too tall or heavy leaps into the air, the other dancer will not be able to catch her or twirl her around."

"She's just a child!" said one mother heatedly. She and her daughter were both quite plump. "She just wants to dance!" Suddenly, the girl, who had glasses like Iolanthe did, started crying. That set the other girl off as well - she was very thin, but Iolanthe could see it, too tall to pass for ballet.

Madame du Pree threw up her hands, exasperated. What can I do? her expression seemed to say. "My deepest apologies," she said aloud. "I cannot change my mind." Aunt Petunia could be seen through the window, lace gloved hands wrapped around her bony elbows, watching the upset mothers and crying daughters contemptuously.

On the surface, it looked like she was contemptuous of such public displays of affection. Iolanthe knew the truth. Aunt Petunia would not have gotten emotional and would not have given up so easily. She would have made Madame du Pree's life hell just to get her niece into a ballet class. Aunt Petunia disliked those who lacked willpower in the ever increasing climb toward the top of the social pyramid.

Madame du Pree ghosted into the ballet studio, shutting the door and blocking out all sound, leaving the secretary to deal with the two mothers and their daughters. Perhaps that was why the secretary looked so cranky all the time. Iolanthe noticed that everyone else had gone still and silent, and she did too. An intimidated silence fell over the group of girls as Madame du Pree looked them over. They were all too aware of the crying girls outside.

"Let us begin," said Madame du Pree at last, brisk and businesslike. The pianist in the corner sitting before the gleaming dark piano, a thin black woman, began playing beautiful, tinkling music that they could dance to.

They began at the barre - the long bar across one side of the room. They had to try to grab the barre with one hand, and lift their first foot all the way over the barre to stretch out their leg. Then they switched hands and did the same thing for the other leg. Iolanthe could barely make her foot up to the barre, not used to stretching.

Madame du Pree walked behind them, pinching the fat on their back sides to see how much of it there was. With Iolanthe she said nothing, but with other girls she said, "Work on this."

Next came the plie. They wrapped their arms around the bar, their backs against the wall, and stood up painfully on their tip toes in their ballet shoes, trying to achieve a perfect point. Their legs were spread wide apart, "like you are riding a horse," said Madame du Pree. Then they painfully bent their knees, trying to keep a perfect center of balance.

"Your legs and lower body should resemble a rectangle," said Madame du Pree.

Next came the tendu. They turned sideways, held onto the bar with one hand, and made their legs perfectly straight, standing on their toes. Then slowly they arced one shaky leg behind them, over the floor, and tried to curl their back toes in a perfect, graceful air point. Their free hand was draped elegantly out in front of and beside them.

In battement degage, they stood with one hand on the bar and one foot flat and normal. The other foot was turned entirely sideways, and pointed outward, the completely curled foot above the ground in the air. Their free arm was out in a straight horizontal line beside them.

Ron de jambe was the last warmup exercise. They stood on one toe, arced the other curled foot out horizontally beside them, then brought that toe point to their other knee in a triangle formation. Their hand and arm made a half circle above them.

"Backs straight, shoulders back! Head held high, no bent neck! Feel your center!" Madame du Pree called sternly, and she walked down the rows, showing students what she meant and correct different standings, postures, and grips. They had to hold the positions for what seemed like a long time, making them even harder.

Many girls got upset or frustrated, fell out of formation, couldn't do the moves, but Iolanthe early on found herself able to do many of the poses. It helped that she could feel her aunt's critical eyes on her, and was determined to do well. Caught up in the silent perfection of technique, she was concentrating so hard on doing everything perfectly that she barely noticed the pain or fatigue accompanying the movements. She was caught up in the rush, the execution.

Next they did center work, which were a series of movements done out in the center of the dance floor, before the long mirror, with no bar. They all stood in a line in the center of the dance floor.

Port de bras was their first move, and it consisted of standing on one tiptoe with the other leg a bent triangle, lifting their arms, turning sideways, and extending one leg out behind them. Then they turned back around, landed with their feet flat on the ground in opposing horizontal parallel lines, one behind the other, and curled their arms out before them in a U. Then they turned the other way, and did the same thing for the other side.

This was easier for Iolanthe than the barre work was. Having a set series of movements to do, and not just a pose to hold, greatly helped her movements. Quick and graceful, she flowed out of one form and into the other, doing them over and over again with an increasing thrill of excitement.

"Show off," the girl directly next to Iolanthe muttered, rebelliously.

"You would be showing off, too, if you had something worth showing off!" Madame du Pree snapped, and she stormed off down the line of girls, leaving the rebellious girl tearful behind her.

"Here," said Iolanthe. "Try like this." And she showed the girl how to do different moves. The girl brightened, and began doing the movements alongside her, with increasing success.

The final center exercise was grand battement. They started with one foot flat, balancing, the other leg curled in front of them with the toe pointed, arm arced out directly in front of them. Then they suddenly arced their curled leg out directly out in front of them and up over their head. Their arm was supposed to extend in a direct line upward beside their leg, the two lines running parallel. Slowly, the arm and leg were moved until they were totally sideways beside the side of the dancer's head. They did that with each side.

Always, they returned to the standing position, two flat feet pointed in opposing horizontal parallel directions, one in front of the other, their arms in a U.

"The moves should ideally be quick, simple, and graceful, one flowing right into the other," said Madame du Pree. "It should look easy, even though you already know it is not."

They stumbled their shaky way through these beginning exercises, falling quite frequently - "No crying!" Madame du Pree ordered mercilessly, "It happens in dance!" and Iolanthe could follow this order, though some could not - and then they moved on to actual steps. Madame du Pree would demonstrate a series of steps and movements. Then the girls would line up, and leap forward in turns to do the series of movements solo, in front of everyone else.

There were three types of movements: adagio, slow, graceful steps; petit allegro, small faster, livelier steps and jumps; and grand allegro, big faster, livelier steps and jumps.

Here was where Iolanthe really shined. She leaped and sprinted gracefully across the floor, flowing in and out of different movements. This was fun! But she didn't get everything perfect, and wanted to do more, addicted to the rush of fast energy. So after class was dismissed, and Aunt Petunia came to pick her up, Iolanthe said, "I want to keep going. Can I practice extra?" She looked between her aunt and the Madame.

Aunt Petunia smiled smugly. "I would be willing to help you more," said Madame du Pree, surprised. She looked at the pianist, who nodded willingly enough.

"Teacher's pet," one of the girls muttered as the rest left the floor sourly. Iolanthe felt a momentary pang, but her aunt knelt down before her.

"They're just jealous because you're the best," she said quietly. "And besides, you don't need friends. They'll only be distractions."

Iolanthe imbibed this. Silent but talented, she thought: Yes, I am the best. Let them call me a teacher's pet. It's just jealousy anyway, and jealousy and imitation should be compliments.

For the first time but not the last, she was distanced from the other girls.

So her aunt waited while Iolanthe practiced with Madame du Pree over and over again, struggling as she sweated to stay in singular positions, leaping countless times across the floor. For the first time in her life, when she danced, she forgot herself. She spoke here, in her movements: quiet, subtle, but arcingly graceful and delicate. She danced until she was very tired, sweaty, and sore, oblivious to fatigue. Her glasses kept sliding off and eventually she just went without them.

Iolanthe had fallen in love with dance - with the easy wonder of it. She practiced for hours alone out on the dance floor.

Before they left, Madame du Pree told Aunt Petunia about the proper diet for a ballerina. "Your niece has potential," she said. "It would be a shame to ruin it." Aunt Petunia seemed to take this very seriously.

At last, she made the drive home with Aunt Petunia, still humming with the thrill of excitement. "Aunt Petunia," she said eagerly, "since I enjoyed that so much, can I try ice skating?"

Aunt Petunia paused. "Figure skating?" she said. "That's a feminine enough hobby. Yes, I suppose Vernon would be alright with it."

They parked in front of the Dursleys' house. Two story, white, square, and suburban, it had a beautiful green front lawn and gorgeous dormer windows. Uncle Vernon was a firm director, Aunt Petunia was a housewife, and on the outside their life seemed perfect.

They entered the house to find a series of smashed toys along the hallway to the kitchen, marring the perfect white carpet. Everything in the spacious home was white and beige - from the walls to the expensive furniture. Tasteful paintings hung on walls and lovely vases were set on end tables. The polished mantel piece above the large red brick fireplace in the living room gleamed. It was a carefully perfect home, one Dudley seemed determined to ruin.

"Boys will be boys," her aunt and uncle always said.

Aunt Petunia sighed, hurrying forward, snatching up four-year-old Dudley, her biological son, an already massive blond boy with a pink face and small, watery blue eyes. He screamed and shrieked, hitting her with glancing pudgy fists, throwing a tantrum.

"Now, now, Duddy, it's okay," Aunt Petunia cooed. She grabbed him a sweet and he quieted, munching on it, his face a sticky mess. Then he smirked, walked over, and poked Iolanthe in the stomach, smudging her pink leotard with chocolate.

"You ruined it!" Iolanthe snapped, glaring at him severely.

"Iolanthe, polite little girls don't get angry," Aunt Petunia mandated. "It will come out in the wash. I'm proud of you for taking care of your ballet, but girls must remain calm and quiet. Duddy, what have I told you? You can tease your sister, but you must never hit her. In fact, you must protect her - from distractions in school."

"Yes, Mummy." Dudley sat down on the floor, munching at his treat.

"Come with me, Iolanthe." Aunt Petunia took Iolanthe upstairs to her bedroom, which Aunt Petunia had hand decorated herself. Everything was Aunt Petunia's doing, from the perfect pink to the frills and the lace to the dollhouses. Aunt Petunia pulled Iolanthe's ballet clothes off and picked out the perfect outfit - a delicate little button up white and black wool coat and a pair of black flats. Iolanthe's black hair was still in a tight bun behind her, her demeanor dour and plain.

"We're going to get you a new look," Aunt Petunia beamed, patting Iolanthe on the chest. "I'm going to pick some clothes out for you, nice, pretty new ones. I'm going to teach you about fashion. We'll start you on lots of healthy foods. I'll mention figure skating to Vernon. And do you know what? Since you were so good with ballet, you can do some other things with me! I'm going to teach you how to gourmet cook, and you can help me with the flower gardening outside. You can learn some nice housewifely chores. How does that sound?"

Iolanthe smiled shyly, uncertain. "Fine, Aunt Petunia," she said timidly.

Uncle Vernon, a massive ruddy-faced man in a three-piece suit with a black mustache, came home and largely ignored his children except for some glancing side affection as he made his way into the gleaming kitchen. He and his wife pecked each other unaffectionately, and then he took a bottle of brandy and collapsed in an armchair in front of the television, waiting for dinner to be ready. Aunt Petunia worked away in the kitchen, scrubbing furiously at spots and making dinner, and Iolanthe as always felt that her aunt was trying very hard to ignore something - what, she couldn't say.

Her aunt and uncle never fought. Aunt Petunia gave sharp words and Uncle Vernon mumbled, Uncle Vernon ordered and Aunt Petunia followed, but in Iolanthe's mind that wasn't the same. So nothing was wrong.

Dudley made violence and racket whenever he wanted more attention, but Iolanthe kept quiet all throughout dinner. Her moment of thrill and self expression was gone, and now it was back to something more stifling. The family had their pre-rehearsed lines and moves for dinner parties, but on normal days this was how it usually was.

Then after dinner, Iolanthe walked up and tugged at Aunt Petunia's skirt. "Story?" she asked, looking up with big eyes behind her glasses.

Uncle Vernon never read her stories. He didn't have much use for a girl. There were things he expected, and that was about it.

"Very well," said Aunt Petunia affectionately, and she walked Iolanthe upstairs to her bedroom and they curled up in bed together. Aunt Petunia always chose the story, and she'd picked out all the books herself. No fantasy, science fiction, or fairy tales were allowed. "You don't need to be reading such imaginative nonsense," she said. "But reading itself is important. So is education."

Apparently this wasn't important for Dudley, because no one ever read to him. Strangely? This raised his value instead of lowered it.

Aunt Petunia sat down beside Iolanthe, who was wearing the nightgown her aunt had chosen and who was usually washed by her aunt's own hand, in the bed her aunt had chosen, and they read the book her aunt had chosen.

Iolanthe was four. She saw nothing wrong with any of this. In her world, all families were that way.

* * *

Iolanthe had already started her ballerina diet by the time she and Aunt Petunia went shopping at the mall for a new fashion. Ballerinas had be both lean and strong, so they required a very special diet.

She'd have it memorized by the time the year was out. She knew how to dance and eat correctly before she knew how to read.

Protein and fiber for breakfast: usually either eggs with whole grain toast, a Greek yogurt parfait with berries and vanilla, or even leftover chicken-vegetable stir fry from last night's dinner.

Proteins and antioxidants for lunch: usually either a veggie-packed salad with grilled chicken or fish, hard boiled eggs, and tofu or black beans; or, wraps with whole grain tortillas, turkey, avocado, lettuce, and tomatoes; or, a hearty soup of some kind; or, peanut butter and sliced bananas, apples, or berries on whole grain bread.

A more voluminous meal of lean proteins, antioxidants, and whole grains for dinner: chicken, fish, pork tenderloins, lentils, or tofu; with broccoli, peppers, or carrots; with quinoa, brown rice, or whole wheat pasta.

Protein and fiber again for snacks: things like apple with peanut butter, bell peppers with hummus, Greek yogurt with banana, and homemade trail mix.

Dessert was allowed, but used sparingly. And that was Iolanthe's usual life when it came to food. Even her drinks were healthy: iced tea, green tea, peach tea, or lemonade.

But now came time for adding the look to the diet. Dudley had been left with their old cat lady neighbor, Mrs Figg - their typical babysitter - and Aunt Petunia and Iolanthe were out shopping together.

They entered the mall, a gleaming several floored affair filled with huge, glittering shop windows. Iolanthe was silent with awe. "This is where we get your new look," said Aunt Petunia in satisfaction. "First, we get you contacts."

They walked up to an eyeware shop that had pictures of beaming young thin white people wearing stylish glasses in the front windows. They walked inside, to countless walls filled with spectacle frames, a long desk cutting the room in half, and a series of waiting chairs. Aunt Petunia told the lady behind the counter, "We had a prescription for contact lenses ready to be picked up today." She slid the slip across the counter.

They'd been to the eye doctor a few days ago, and he'd filled a prescription and measured the size of Iolanthe's eyes for contacts.

"Right," said the lady, looking over the prescription. "Miss Potter, is it? Right this way." Iolanthe was supposed to follow her toward the back. She looked over at her aunt, who motioned her forward sternly, and at last followed the woman past the long counter and into the back room.

They sat down and the lady said, "Now, open your eye wide. The lens has to be placed directly onto your eyeball, and the lid can't twitch." After a few tries where Iolanthe jumped and started, they at last got the contact lens successfully onto the eyeball. They did the same procedure with the other eye.

"Wow!" said Iolanthe brightly, blinking. "I can see! With no glasses!"

"Yes, that is the idea," said the woman, amused, and handed Iolanthe the box of contacts.

Iolanthe traveled out into the waiting area again, and Aunt Petunia stood. "Yes, that's much better," she said, pleased. It is? Iolanthe wondered. Aunt Petunia paid for the contacts, and then ushered Iolanthe back out of the shop.

"Now comes time for the haircut," she said, a gleam of determination in her own eye.

They walked into the hairstylist's. It smelled strongly of hairspray and was mostly composed of long lines of huge purple plastic chairs in front of mirrors, a hairdresser standing behind each person's chair snipping and styling away.

"She needs a haircut. Something to make her look good," said Aunt Petunia, with the hard casualness of someone haggling or bargaining. "What have you got?"

"Well, let's see her hair undone," said the hairstylist thoughtfully. Iolanthe looked over tentatively at Aunt Petunia, who nodded with pursed and reluctant lips. Almost shamefully, Iolanthe let loose her wild mane of black curls.

"Alright," said the hairstylist. "Well she'll need bangs for starters. Her forehead's too wide."

"I would also like it if that horrid scar were covered up," said Aunt Petunia quietly. "The lightning bolt on the forehead? She got it in the car crash that killed her parents. It's a nasty reminder."

Iolanthe was listening closely, interested. Aunt Petunia gave her an uncertain sideways look. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never talked about Iolanthe's parents.

"Right," said the hairstylist. "Well, I'd recommend something short, chin-length and layered. Her chin needs widening, and her thin face needs more volume."

"You mean… with her hair remaining curled and messy?" Aunt Petunia asked uncertainly.

"Well, yes. That kind of volume is just what her face needs," said the hairstylist frankly. "What is she getting the haircut for?"

"I'm trying ballet," Iolanthe spoke up at last. "And figure skating." The women looked at her in surprise. Iolanthe could talk for herself.

The hairstylist smiled. "Well then short hair is the perfect thing. Very sensible. No bun will be needed that way and her face will look lovely."

"... Let's try it," said Aunt Petunia thoughtfully at last.

Iolanthe was sat down in the big chair. The hairstylist pressed a pedal with her shoe and the chair slowly rose up… and the hair snipping began. Iolanthe was not shown her full head of hair until the end, and the hairstylist smiled as Iolanthe gasped in delight.

With a chin-length head of short, bouncy black curls and with no glasses hiding her eyes, her face looked much better and it was on full display. Now she saw small delicate features, high cheekbones, and those almond-shaped bright green eyes Madame had mentioned. She was pale, but no longer plain, and her bangs covered her wide forehead and her scar.

"It looks good," said Aunt Petunia eagerly, petting her head of hair.

They paid for the haircut, and went shopping for clothes, traveling in and out of stores with an increasing number of bags. Aunt Petunia chose lots of nice pencil skirts, tights, and reserved sweaters and tops - all very traditionalist - and told Iolanthe about shopping according to color. "You're a Winter coloring type. You have icy skin with blue undertones, very black hair, and brilliant eyes. Certain colors look good on you and certain colors don't," she said thoughtfully, standing clothes in front of Iolanthe to take a better look at them.

In the end, they picked out clothes in icy violet, royal purple, icy yellow, lemon yellow, bright burgundy, true red, ruby red, icy pink, shocking pink, deep hot pink, icy green, light true green, emerald green, hot turquoise, icy clear blue, true blue, royal blue, and pure white.

Those were the only kinds of colors both Aunt Petunia and Iolanthe would accept. Aunt Petunia refused the blacks, while Iolanthe refused the greys, browns, navys, and beiges. Iolanthe would allow a taupe colored coat, and Aunt Petunia would allow black shoes. They both stomped their feet and started shouting when they didn't get their own way when it came to an outfit. Aunt Petunia must have realized what a scene they were making, though, because in the end she looked around nervously at the staring passersby and laughed with high unease. Then she shoved the compromise clothes in Iolanthe's arms and muttered, "We'll discuss this later," leading her by the shoulder with one long-nailed sharp hand up to the counter.

Iolanthe got her clothes, but Aunt Petunia ranted at her during the car ride home. "I just want what's best for you! You don't know what's best for you! We have to make you perfect!" Iolanthe scowled and glared sullenly out the window all the way back to the house.

But Aunt Petunia melted the moment Iolanthe walked down the stairs from her bedroom in one of her new outfits. Usually Aunt Petunia dressed her, but today, for the surprise effect, she'd made an exception. "Oh, you look so perfect…!" Aunt Petunia cooed, teary eyed, looking at Iolanthe who was smiling and transformed.

When Uncle Vernon came home from work in suit and tie with his briefcase, he was not as pleased.

"What's wrong with her hair?" he barked. "It's short and disorderly!" Both were distasteful and shocking in women for Uncle Vernon.

Aunt Petunia glared, defending her prize. They were in the kitchen. "It looks better that way!" she snapped. "And it's more sensible for things like ballet and figure skating!"

"Figure skating?" Uncle Vernon said in bewilderment.

There was a pause. Aunt Petunia's eyes had become wide and her mouth was a round O. They had not told Uncle Vernon about the figure skating yet.

"Uncle Vernon." Iolanthe looked up at him with big green eyes. "I was wondering…" She fidgeted. "Could I take figure skating as well as ballet?!" she blurted out.

There was a tentative silence as Uncle Vernon looked her over with reserve.

"You know, girl, you cost us a lot of extra money to keep around as it is," he said. "And that is a vast outlay of money." Iolanthe winced. "... So if you're going to do this, I need to know you'll stick with it."

Aunt Petunia relaxed in relief. Iolanthe brightened in delight. "I will! Thank you, Uncle Vernon!" She gave him a tight hug around the middle and then zoomed off up the stairs before he could change his mind.

"Don't thunder in the house!" Aunt Petunia called.

Uncle Vernon harrumphed after her.

* * *

So it became ballet two days a week, and figure skating another two days a week.

They entered the rink for Iolanthe's first class, and she was nervous. The rink was an amazing place, enormous stands set around a circle of metal benches which in turn lined a wide, smooth white skating rink, freshly iced over by a zamboni for her session.

Iolanthe was wearing figure skating pants, a jacket over a casual top, gloves, and socks. She sat on a bench and strapped on her brand-new white figure skates, Aunt Petunia kneeling down and helping her lace them up. Iolanthe had already put on her gloves and used the restroom, which was important to do before any skating session, out on the freezing rink with no easy way to pee.

Finally, Iolanthe stood quickly - "Careful!" said Aunt Petunia uneasily, throwing out her hands in panic - and with difficulty, Iolanthe hobbled over on her skates to the entry rink door. She could say this for herself: Aunt Petunia may know more, but Iolanthe was bolder and more gracefully comfortable in her own body.

She leaned against the entry door as the teacher, a young trim man in a bulky black sweater, walked around checking off different students on his clipboard. "Potter," Iolanthe wheezed out, trying to stay upright. "Iolanthe Potter."

He smiled and nodded, but checked her off and moved on. "Marcus," he returned, and continued on to the next student.

At last, Marcus himself skated out into the center of the rink. "This is going to be scary!" He smiled. "But I want everyone to step onto the ice and grab onto the rail. Make one full circle around the rink. Just walk, and hold the rail circling the rink."

"Be careful," Aunt Petunia breathed, terrified, as Iolanthe gamely climbed out onto the ice - slipped a little - and held. She grabbed onto the railing, and hobbled slowly in a perimeter around the rink, getting increasingly more confident with each move she made. This wasn't so bad!

"Now, move away a bit from the rail!"

Iolanthe immediately pushed off - and held her position there, standing balanced tentatively on the ice. She beamed over, excited, at Aunt Petunia, who smiled though her face was white. This was fun!

Apparently some children didn't think so, though. A few were crying. The next part was worse for them: "I want you to purposefully fall down!" Marcus called. "That's right, just fall over! That way you won't be as scared of falling anymore!"

Well there was a theory. A pause - and then Iolanthe pushed herself over and fell on her butt first. She paused in surprise. She wasn't really hurt, but her butt was cold.

"It's freezing," she confirmed to everyone. (People were staring at her.) "But it doesn't hurt."

And then other children were trying it. They fell over one by one, as if an invisible force was pushing them, and a couple cried but not many. Marcus gave Iolanthe a grateful smile.

"Now, get on all fours, then put your hands between your knees and push yourselves to your feet," said Marcus.

They did so, and then Marcus led them in a line, in a march across the ice. In between steps, the students "rested." This meant that they glided forward a short distance, which gave Iolanthe an enormous excited thrill, and then kept marching. Then they tried dips, which was squatting forward and then back up while gliding. Iolanthe proved the only one who could do this move correctly, furthering her knowledge of herself as excellent in her own body when it came to speed and grace.

And then they learned to stop. "Push your feet apart and use the flats of your blades to stop!" Marcus called. Iolanthe did this correctly, and so did some other students. But several others went into accidental splits, and one kid pitched headfirst onto the ice.

He started wailing and the first class was over after that.

Over the following weeks, the class thinned but Iolanthe remained (despite Aunt Petunia's concerns). They learned other moves like forward and backward swizzles, backward wiggles (a smaller swizzle), two foot jumps, and they mastered the dip. Music was played in figure skating as well as in ballet. And as with ballet, Iolanthe became addicted to the rush and took to practicing for hours with Marcus at the rink after class. She expressed herself through the rush of skating as in dancing, heedless of exhaustion as she tried for endless hours to express herself through that perfect, silent, subtle delicacy.

It was just as well. Whenever Iolanthe tried to start chatting with a fellow student in either class, Aunt Petunia - who watched her like a hawk, looking for any hints of failure, throughout every minute of practice - would come over, place a hand on her shoulder, and lead her away. Iolanthe would look over her shoulder longingly as the confused child fell behind her.

"You don't need distractions anymore than you need imagination," said Aunt Petunia, and Iolanthe began to wonder privately just what that meant.

* * *

Aunt Petunia did as she promised, and brought Iolanthe up in the ways of the house.

She would stand her in the kitchen on a stool and teach her gourmet cooking - very traditionalist. Aunt Petunia was strict on that note. They learned hundreds of proper cooking techniques, tools, recipes, and ingredients. Some of them were recipes from Aunt Petunia's own personal cookbook.

Iolanthe learned she immediately wanted to venture out into the new and different, innovating and experimenting with recipes, and here Aunt Petunia put her foot down. "We're doing traditional meals the established way," she mandated.

The same with gardening and landscaping around the home. Iolanthe wanted to try new things - beautiful Zen gardens or wild forest landscapes. Aunt Petunia insisted on traditional English gardens.

Still, much of it was fun - Iolanthe immersed herself in learning the perfect creative technique for so many different arts around the home. Less fun was cleaning and polishing, which Aunt Petunia made her do over - and over - and over again. Dudley would tease her, laugh at her, and poke fun at her, having to do none of it himself.

Meanwhile, school loomed for the first time up ahead. Iolanthe knew she was expected to read a lot, and she was expected to get good grades - expected to do so in a way Dudley really wasn't. Inside, she was nervous of letting her aunt and uncle down. Stories, she loved. Was she interested in school itself…? Not so much. She didn't think she'd make any more friends there than at dancing or skating - Dudley would make sure of that - and there she would lose the bedrock certainty of being better than everybody else.

That, more than anything, was what made her anxious.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Iolanthe stood beside Dudley in front of the school building on their first day of school. Whenever Iolanthe thought of school, she thought of old-fashioned red brick buildings with bell towers, but St Grogory's was just a block concrete mass.

"Frank Lloyd Wright would have a field day," Aunt Petunia muttered.

Uncle Vernon chuckled. "What were you expecting, a French castle?" he muttered, leaning over.

"What does that mean?" Dudley, who was quite angry and teary, demanded.

"Well, Duddykins, it means -" Aunt Petunia began.

"It means St Grogory's looks boring and unsophisticated," said Iolanthe matter of factly.

All three of them stared at her. "How do you know that?" Aunt Petunia wondered, bewildered.

"You said French. Aunt Petunia likes sophisticated French things, like their perfume and jewelry and classical music," said Iolanthe, as if this was obvious.

"She's going to be good at this! Mummy, can't she go for me?" Dudley whined, turning back to his mother.

"Oh, Duddy!" Aunt Petunia sobbed, wrapping him in a tight hug.

"That means no," Uncle Vernon told his son. Dudley scowled, his hope fading.

"Don't worry, Dudley. Just do what I do," said Iolanthe helpfully. "I've been to classes with other people before."

"Yes, and protect your sister." Aunt Petunia moved back to look Dudley in the eye, more serious. "Remember."

"Yes, Mummy."

Aunt Petunia looked Iolanthe over. "You look fine," she said. She'd dressed Iolanthe herself. "I expect good grades."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," said Iolanthe shyly.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia walked Dudley and Iolanthe up the front steps, through the double doors, and up to the classroom door inside the long linoleum hallway. Dudley and Iolanthe, however, walked through the blue painted classroom door alone, rather closer together than usual.

And from there, school began. One moment stood out to Iolanthe in that day very clearly. They'd made it to lunch time, and everyone had swarmed out onto the playground. At St Grogory's, children were allowed to eat their packed lunches outside.

Iolanthe grabbed her lunch bag and looked around in bright interest, seeing all the children eating lunch together and giggling, or playing on the colorful playground equipment. Two girls approached her excitedly - and then Dudley got between them, big and hulking, scowling and intimidating.

"No one talks to my cousin," he growled.

"Oh, but we only wanted to -"

"No one. Talks. To my cousin," he repeated threateningly, his great face reddening. Surrounding children were staring. The girls backed up nervously, throwing a fearful glance at Iolanthe over Dudley's shoulder, and they hurried away.

Dudley turned to Iolanthe expectantly. "I'm going to go play," he said, and ran off to play with a group of other boys. Iolanthe nodded glumly, sullen and expressionless, staring after him. At last, she sat down on the steps with her lunch, eating in silence and alone.

She gazed out over the playground. Dudley and his friends were shoving kids to make them cry, kicking over sandcastles. Several girls were playing and giggling with makeup underneath the jungle gym. Some boys were playing football.

Iolanthe watched it all from a distance, the girl in the corner, repressed and alone. This was how it became every lunchtime. Whenever a child approached her, Dudley would charge over, his face thunderous, and scare them away. Soon, no one approached her, and that became her school life.

She found solace by throwing herself into her artistic hobbies - into fashion, gardening and cooking, into ballet and figure skating - and also in books. School taught them to read, the great key that allowed them access into any story they wanted. Iolanthe would get a book from the school library and sit out on the front steps with her lunch, reading and munching in the quiet. She remembered that she was not allowed fantasy, science fiction, or fairy tales, but that didn't stop her from reading children's books, teen literature, common fiction, or nonfiction.

Aunt Petunia watched approvingly as Iolanthe became a bookworm, even while she was furious with Iolanthe over other things.

Iolanthe did not start out doing well in school. "It's not that you're stupid!" Uncle Vernon spat at her in countless fights over the dinner table. "What is the problem?"

"You're making us look bad!" said Aunt Petunia passionately. Here, her aunt and uncle were united, in their twin glares.

Iolanthe didn't know what the problem was. She found school boring. "It's just sitting and memorizing a bunch of pointless things!" she snapped.

"Well I'm sorry!" said Uncle Vernon. "But that's life! Sometimes it's boring!"

But Iolanthe didn't want that to be life. She wanted more. Aunt Petunia, determined to prove her niece was not bad at school, would stand over her and make sure she completed her homework. Iolanthe never got any of it right, and this made her feel very cross and idiotic indeed.

Every time she got back a bad grade on another assignment, it stung. Here came another lecture.

"Dudley doesn't have to go through all this. He's doing just as bad as I am," Iolanthe muttered once, rebelliously.

"Dudley isn't - Dudley isn't the point here!" Aunt Petunia snapped, slamming her hand on the table, frustrated on a deeply personal level.

But the thought remained, hanging in the air between them. For Uncle Vernon, good grades in his niece was a status symbol. For Aunt Petunia, it was something else.

* * *

It was just a stupid throwaway comment. It shouldn't have been anything.

"Hey! Weird quiet girl! Why are you always sitting by yourself?!" a dark haired boy jeered at her from a distance one day at recess, and his friends laughed. Iolanthe looked up from her book to glare at him, a flash of hot anger running through her.

Dudley could smell Iolanthe trouble a mile away, and charged over to go take care of the problem -

But before he could, the boy shrieked as some invisible force lifted him into the air by his hair, turned him over, and dunked him headfirst into the nearest bin.

There were both screams and shrieks of laughter, but no one could be entirely certain what to make of it.

Dudley was ranting and raving about it to his parents on the way home from school in the car, very excited and impressed, and both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon froze up, giving each other dark looks.

The minute they got home, Uncle Vernon grabbed Iolanthe by the arm and she was strong armed, struggling and shrieking, toward the cupboard under the stairs. "I don't know how you did it, but there will be consequences!" he growled.

"But the thing with the boy? I didn't do it!" Iolanthe shrieked. "I didn't do it!" Nobody believed her.

"How could you betray me like this?!" Aunt Petunia snapped heatedly, glaring at her from a distance. There were tears in her eyes and her arms were folded, upset.

"Aunt Petunia! Aunt Petunia, help me!"

But no help was to be had. Iolanthe tried to grab onto the side of the cupboard door, but she was pushed inside the cupboard under the stairs and the door was slammed shut.

"NO! NO! PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME IN HERE! NO!"

Iolanthe struggled and shoved herself against the door, but it stayed locked.

"I will not tolerate such behavior in this house!" Uncle Vernon snapped.

"But I didn't do anything!" Iolanthe shrieked, even as the slot was slammed shut and she was left in the dark.

She began screaming and shrieking as she felt spiders crawling all over her, down her spine and into her hair. She struggled and screamed, brushing against the cleaning supplies, for many hours, until she fell into an exhausted, tearful, and terrified silence. She was not let out, not even to pee, until the following evening.

Iolanthe was starting to come to an important realization: Her aunt and uncle weren't perfect. They demanded unreasonable things, and they blamed her for things that weren't her fault, they controlled her and locked her into cupboards. She still assumed all families were that way.

But it ate at her, when she was let back out. "Have you learned your lesson?" asked Aunt Petunia expectantly.

That experience would either make or break a young child. It made Iolanthe.

"Yes," she said as she was expected to, but she didn't mean it. She hadn't learned her lesson at all. And the resentment festered.

It festered when she was not allowed friends at school.

It festered when she was lectured for bad grades and Dudley wasn't.

It festered when she felt those critical eyes on her every moment of creative practice.

It festered when she felt the books she was allowed to read controlled.

It festered when Aunt Petunia continued to pick out everything in her room for her, have final say in all clothes and food, and dress her every morning.

She assumed all families were that way. But she was starting to feel maybe they shouldn't be. And besides... why were those fantasy books made if no one was allowed to read them?


	3. Chapter 3

3.

The grades situation didn't improve. Once a teacher made fun of Iolanthe for getting an answer wrong in front of the entire class, and Iolanthe had to bring home a terrifying school note saying her teacher's toupee had somehow turned blue directly in front of her with no outside assistance. That had gotten her another cupboard punishment from a violent Uncle Vernon - in spite of the fact that she still hadn't meant to do anything.

Iolanthe was finally sent to a school counselor over her worsening grades. Her aunt and uncle had scheduled the appointment for her without her knowledge, and it was a nasty shock getting the yellow slip of parchment one day in class. Students snickered behind her as she left.

She sat down, humiliated, in the school counselor's office. The walls were covered in cheesy motivational posters and nature photographs. The counselor was an older woman who wore a massive and extremely ugly sweater. She seemed kind, but also condescending.

"Not doing so well in school, are we?" the counselor asked. "Now why do you think that would be?"

"I don't know," Iolanthe muttered, looking down and swinging her feet above the unforgiving color speckled rug floor.

"Oh, I think you do. Why haven't you been paying attention in lessons?" the counselor pushed.

"It's all boring and pointless. None of it means anything," Iolanthe complained.

"You want practicality. You want things you can actually use for something," the counselor realized.

"Well, yeah," said Iolanthe, as if this should be obvious. "I'm not just interested in information for the fun of it."

"Then I think what we need here is a way to view learning in a new light," said the counselor. "Try to pick from each lesson something concrete you could use it for in the future. Concentrate on learning an actual technique, not on memorizing the information surrounding it.

"I gather from you that you would also like a little more creative input?" she added.

Iolanthe nodded curiously.

"Then make each school assignment a creative project. When you have to memorize information, write things down in a physical movement with a tool, or create diagrams and flowcharts - People who prefer practical information typically do best when they treat learning either physically, called kinesthetically, or creatively. And remember: focus on actual technique, not on the minutiae surrounding it. See all schoolwork as a learning of useful technique. Ask yourself: how could this be useful?"

Iolanthe didn't see how this would work at first. She didn't find anything about learning different shapes incredibly useful. Finally, she revealed what the counselor had said to her aunt.

"Well this is a perfect!" said Aunt Petunia, delighted. "I knew I could believe in you! You just want practical uses for information! So let's look at shapes. Pretend you're an architect, or an engineer. These would be useful then, right?

"Pretend you're a lawyer or scholarly essay writer. Wouldn't that make learning history incredibly important?

"And as for treating school projects more creatively and focusing on more kinesthetic methods of memorization… well, we can work on those too."

Iolanthe was torn. She was still upset a counselor had been called, and increasingly resentful of Aunt Petunia's constant interference. But she let her aunt help her, and slowly, as she learned what she had to do in order to improve, her academic grades began increasing.

And then they shot straight through the stratosphere. Iolanthe Potter, reserved and snooty and perfectly dressed though she appeared, became a thorough bookworm and an A student with an eye toward creativity and practical, concrete uses for information. Slowly, her self confidence in her own intelligence and analytical abilities increased. She regained her solid belief that she was better than everyone, distanced from having friends.

She was still the property of Dudley Dursley - horrible bully in training.

* * *

As Iolanthe got older, she began going through ballet and figure skating recitals. She could still remember her first.

In ballet outfit on the night of, after countless rehearsals, she stood nervous but elated, flittering in the dark backstage with the other girls, watching the audience through the curtains.

"Everyone will be staring at us," one girl whispered. "My parents are out there."

But Iolanthe was used to such pressure. Her aunt watched her like a hawk at every rehearsal. The only difference was that here, the stakes were higher. If she messed up here, there would be far worse hell to pay back at home.

So she toed out onstage in the line of her other female classmates - the ones who still remained - the audience were faceless black shadows behind the bright stage lights. And Iolanthe concentrated hard on getting everything totally perfect. She never once looked into the audience. She couldn't afford to.

This had to be flawless, and she knew it.

But as usual, when the music played and she began dancing, she forgot herself. She lost herself in the silent, wordless expression of movement, only aware enough to know what the people on either side of her were doing. She felt a strange tingling within her body, and began to feel lighter than air - floating and leaping almost supernaturally with grace as she continued to move, as if some strange power was supporting her and lifting her into the air.

When she finally came back to herself, everyone was applauding.

The dancers smiled, and bowed. Aunt Petunia raved about her performance on the way home, and Iolanthe knew she had done well.

The figure skating recital was similar. The children didn't do much, but Iolanthe wore a beautiful pure white figure skating uniform sparkling with silver snowflakes. They watched the older students go up onto the rink in turns, music playing from loudspeakers, and then they skated out onto the ice to do a few brief moves in tandem at the end. There was one long final parade, all the figure skaters getting into a great line and zooming across the ice, and the audience in the surrounding stands stood and thundered with applause.

Iolanthe continued doing well and increasingly threw herself into the sports as years passed. Her classes did increasingly complex moves at recitals, students increasingly falling by the wayside. She started getting the chance to do solo performances, sometimes with a male dancer or skater and sometimes alone, and she always took them. She began moving from recitals and into actual children's performances put on by the rink or the ballet company, playing parts and leaping across the stage or zooming across the ice, being caught and twirled, landing perfectly.

She still felt that strange power in her movements every time she performed, that tingling followed by an odd, floating support.

She worked hard, ate well, bled and sweated her time, and it paid off. She gained a slim, lithe, muscular form, a great deal of grace, and enormous skill in both sports - as well as countless trophies and photographs, a lot of envy and semi-secret imitation from other students, and a reputation for being a strict hardass. She made no more friends here than she did in school - was never allowed to.

And increasingly, she hated it, despised her aunt and uncle and every single one of their stupid rules. Anger stormed, repressed, within her.

She did, however, begin to form an interest in music. She began looking into what was played over the loudspeakers at the rink or what the pianist Susan played during ballet classes. And she began asking for music listening recommendations, places she could go around the city to find music.

Nothing was done about it yet. She was still in the assessment period - exploring her options.

* * *

Some things hadn't changed. Dinner parties with Uncle Vernon's clients still had their scripted lines. But now, Iolanthe was bragged about.

One night, they were all sitting around the long table with an older wealthy couple.

"She made this meal herself - French cuisine, roasted duck," said Aunt Petunia proudly. "She helped cultivate the English garden you see outside. She's a grade A student, she reads a great deal of sensible literature, and she has several trophies from both ballet and figure skating competitions."

"Wow." They seemed genuinely impressed. Iolanthe smiled shyly, dressed in a perfect icy pink dress, her hair freshly cut around her face. "That's incredible. And I'm sure you make lots of friends with all those impressive hobbies too -"

"Oh, I'm not allowed frie -" said Iolanthe casually, but Aunt Petunia kicked her hard in the leg.

"Yes, she does," Aunt Petunia simpered, as Iolanthe's eyes watered in pain. The older couple looked uncertain.

Iolanthe did not miss this. All families were not like hers. Her aunt and uncle were hiding their ridiculous rules from others.

Dudley confirmed it for her later. "Man, for such a smart girl, you're pretty stupid, shortstop," he said, as they paused on the landing to part ways in their respective upstairs bedrooms. "No one else has rules like yours. I figured it out from my friends years ago. What, do you think other people our age still have bedrooms decorated like a five year old's, or aren't allowed to read fairy tales, or still have their Mummies dress them every morning? That's why I never envy you. In spite of what you have, I wouldn't want to be you - not for anything."

He left Iolanthe standing in front of her bedroom doorway, feeling very small and confused. Not angry, not yet.

That would come.


End file.
